After a horrific car accident, I was rushed straight to the hospital.
Three weeks later, my husband stormed into my room looking furious instead of relieved to see me alive.
“I’ve had enough of this act!” Caleb yelled. “Get out of that bed. I’m not wasting another dollar on you!”
Before I could understand what he intended to do, he seized my arm and tried to drag me off the mattress.
When I fought to stay where I was, he slammed both fists into my stomach.
What happened afterward changed everything.
The room smelled of antiseptic, old coffee, and clean bandages.
Beside my bed, the heart monitor kept a slow, steady rhythm that had become the only thing holding me together.
Beep. Breathe. Beep.
Both of my legs were locked inside heavy plaster casts stretching from my thighs to my feet.
My ribs were fractured, stitches were hidden beneath my hair, and my swollen wrist still carried the hospital band with my name printed across it.
REBECCA WALKER.
The letters seemed almost unnecessary.
I had spent twenty-one days lying in that room, learning how quickly an injured person could begin to feel invisible.
Three weeks earlier, a normal afternoon had ended beneath flashing emergency lights and broken glass.
One moment, I had been thinking about what to make for dinner and whether Emma had remembered to bring home the permission slip from school.
The next, there had been a violent sound, twisting metal, and a pressure across my chest so intense that I could not draw a full breath.
My admission had been recorded at exactly 6:42 p.m.
That time appeared on my chart, my wristband paperwork, and the forms nurses checked each time they adjusted my medication.
I remembered almost nothing about arriving.
